A beefy, tan soldier walked into the basement. He wore a sharp suit and a determined expression. He handed Luca and Achilles papers.
“Bingo. The reports of the participants came in.” Luca tapped the documents with his cigarette. Both brothers scanned the papers silently.
“Susan Bosshardt owes four hundred K to Frankie Ricci.” Luca stroked his chin. “A local loan shark who pays us a cut. We can ask him for a favor. Less paper trail.”
“Christian Sainz had three heart attacks and a stroke this year alone,” Achilles countered. “He’s a better candidate, if he hasn’t died already by the time I finished this sentence.”
The brothers looked between them, then at me.
I stood up, buttoning my coat with one hand.
“I really don’t give a fuck which of these assholes gets wiped out. All I care is that by tomorrow morning, you call me with good news about this trial experiment. Am I clear?”
Achilles saluted me with his middle finger.
Luca poured himself another drink.
I walked out before the stench of the newly dead corpse of a dirty pimp seeped into my nose.
One week later
Ipressed my forehead to the cool glass of the Bentley, closing my eyes and drawing a deep breath.
It was happening.
My wishes were coming true.
Mum was here with me, about to check into Northeastern General Hospital for the dementia treatment program.
I didn’t know how Tate made it happen, and I preferred not to ask. Knowing would consume me with guilt.
“Hey, you.” I squeezed her hand in mine, ripping my gaze from the window. I no longer called her Mum. It triggered her, since she didn’t recognize me. “How’re you feeling?”
My mother stared out the window, appearing to be lost in her own thoughts. I gently rubbed the inside of her pale palm, whichseemed to snap her back into reality. She turned to look at me, face blank and puzzled.
“Oh, it’s you again. You seem to be everywhere these days, don’t you, Georgia?” A lax smile stretched across her lips.
Gia, Mum. My name is Gia.
My heart shriveled and curled inside my chest like a kicked puppy.
My mother was a striking woman who took a lot of pride in her looks. She used to wear silky, colorful dresses and handmade earrings and an eternal, dazzling smile. Her makeup was bold and her perfumes heady.
She was only fifty-five. Even though she seldom remembered me, I made sure to always dress her in her favorite attire and do her makeup before we left the house so that she could at least remember herself.
“It’s Gia.” I smiled patiently, dying from the inside.
“Of course. Yes. Gia. Pretty name. Who are you again?” She slurred slightly. “Charles’s daughter, right? From church? My, how you’ve grown. Such a beauty. How is he doing these days?”
I swallowed but didn’t correct her. Losing a parent in a car accident had been brutal for me, but losing a parent to dementia at such a young age was worse—she was still here but not present.
Dr. Picard’s warning swirled in my head, running circles like an unruly child.
“Forget about that program, Gia. I only mentioned it anecdotally. Your mother isn’t doing well enough to participate. Once a brain cell dies, it cannot be revived. The program was designed for intermediate patients.”
I didn’t listen.
I never listened when it came to my family.
